


land of tears

by kaithartic (bluedreaming)



Series: all the stars were laughing [3]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-26
Updated: 2015-11-26
Packaged: 2018-05-03 13:03:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5291879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluedreaming/pseuds/kaithartic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He always does it wrong.</p>
            </blockquote>





	land of tears

**Author's Note:**

> Listen to this rain falling while you read this

 

_“It is such a mysterious place, the land of tears.”_  
―[Antoine de Saint-Exupéry](https://www.goodreads.com/quotes/15323),  The Little Prince

 

He always does it wrong.

He's always too slow or too fast or too careless or too perfectionist and even when he tries his absolute hardest to do something that will make her smile. . .she's always frowning anyway.

"This sauce is terrible," she says, letting the fork fall to the ground with a dull crash, metal on porcelain, another sliver of heart breaking. Jongin blinks, tries to think of what to say, but his mouth is dry, tongue sticking to his teeth.

"I—I'm sor—" he begins, but she frowns, lip curling in a particularly cutting way that makes him feel oh so very small.

Jongin feels very small, these days. Useless, in fact, as he looks at his hands, clutching onto the fork and knife, the fine trembling in his fingers that he tries to hide, because it only annoys her.

"Don't bother apologizing," she says, brushing his words off like errand specks of dust polluting her black blouse. She looks completely put together, as usual, but she always looks like that. "I'll have a glass of wine I suppose, help wash down the lumps."

Jongin stands quickly, setting his unsoiled cutlery down on either side of his plate. He's not hungry, suddenly, even though he'd been ravenous while cooking, carefully labouring over the roux and cream and the perfect texture. There hadn't been any lumps; just his luck he supposes that she can detect the most minor imperfection in everything he does.

"The wine your mother gave me," she adds, attention on her phone, fork and knife resting on her plate. "It's a lovely vintage."

Jongin bites his lip, tastes red. _My mother_ , he thinks. His mother loves _her_ , thinks the world of _her_ , with her high cheekbones, ringing laughter, sharp intellect. Everyone likes _her_.

He's so distracted, thinking about everything, that he gets the corkscrew wrong and some of the cork crumbles off, landing in the bottle. Jongin looks at it, the brown bits floating innocently in the crimson, black behind the green glass. He can feel his heart accelerating, even though he tries to take deep breaths.

 _She doesn't know,_ he tells himself, shakily reaching for a wine glass, wincing as it hits the glass door of the cabinet with a _ting_ that echoes through the kitchen.

"You're not breaking any glasses, are you?" he can hear her call from the dining room, her voice both bored and yet impatient.

"It's all fine," he calls back, thankful he can keep his voice steady. He fumbles a small strainer out of the cupboard, pouring the wine through quickly so the cork doesn't have time to settle in, pollute the flavour. _She won't notice,_ he tries to tell himself. _She won't notice_.

The strainer, on the way to the sink, leaves drops of wine on the ground, but at least the cork is gone, wine stoppered with the cut glass plug. Jongin takes a deep breath, settles his face.

 

"Here," he says quietly, handing her the glass. It doesn't spill, and she ignores him as he slips back towards the kitchen to mop up the spots on the floor. His mouth tastes rusty; he swallows.

 _Don't notice_.

But of course she notices. She notices everything he does wrong, and he never does anything right.

"Jongin," she says, not loudly, but loud enough to have her voice ringing through the empty air, like bells. Sharp bells. Her voice is lovely, even when it's perfectly neutral. Waiting.

"Yes?" he asks, opening the lid of the bin and putting the soiled paper towel inside, out of sight over the crumbled cork. _I stored the wine wrong,_ he thinks, berating himself. _I should have rested the bottle on its side, put it in the wine rack._

"Jongin," she says, flatly, from the dining room, and he knows. He knows she knows and he doesn't know how but that's just her, isn't it. She's perfect, and he's useless. Jongin feels like nothing more than a disappointment.

"I'm sorry," he says, on reflex, wiping his hands on his jeans, fingers knotting in the stiff fabric, pinching his skin. _Help me_ he wishes he could ask, but there's no one to ask. It's just him.

"I can't hear you," she says, voice filtering through the doorway, and Jongin winces, bare feet catching over the hem of his jeans as he finds himself falling, hands only coming up too late to cushion his fall as he collides with the floor.

He can hear her sighing in annoyance.

"Forget it," she says, her voice already fading as he can hear the scrape of the chair over the wood floor, the sound of fabric brushing fabric as she stands up and walks away.

Jongin blinks, eyes burning, as he lets himself surrender to the feeling of complete uselessness in his chest for a moment. Just a moment, because she's not looking right now.

 

He's just lying there, still on the ground, cold and hard and his hands ache, but he doesn't fell like he can get up right now. Sometimes it gets to be so much, too much, and he just focuses on breathing, on remembering that he's Jongin.

When he starts listening again, the sound of the rain swells in softly; he hadn't even noticed, too preoccupied with making the perfect supper and maybe, just maybe, getting her to smile at him again, like she used to, before they moved in together, before—

Jongin shakes his head, the thoughts slipping away as he watches the rain falling from the sky, the way the drops hit the glass, streaking down; the way the water in the puddles dimples with the drops falling on the concrete, the leaves blowing with the force of the rain.

He can hear her, as though far away down the hall, keyboard clacking or no, the sound of the shower turning on. The clouds part, for just an instant, an errant shaft of light peeking out from behind the grey, evanescent warmth on his face like a lightest touch before it’s gone, but he gets the wildest feeling, all of a sudden, like he could just walk to the front door, open it, and step out into the rain.

Jongin blinks, takes a deep breath.

Reaches for the doorknob.

 

**Author's Note:**

> It was rather difficult to write this section and I hope I did a respectful job of trying to even approach this difficult topic.


End file.
